Even at the best of times, the Kazakhs, the Georgians, the Azerbaijanis, and the others can’t field anything more than lightly armed militias. If the Russians are planning to hit them, those militias won’t stand a chance against modern armor and crack assault troops.”
“The Russians thought that in Grozny, too,” Castilla pointed out, referring to the first major hattle of the ongoing Chechen war. Overconfident Russian troops storming the city had been slaughtered by coordinated ambushes by Chechen guerrillas. Taking the city had finally required a massive campaign, one that had left tens of thousands of civilians dead and Grozny in ruins.
“Grozny was more than ten years ago,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said quietly. “The Russian Army and Air Force have learned a lot since then? both from their own experiences, and from watching our forces in action in Iraq. If they really are going to war to reclaim their old territories, thev won’t make the same mistakes this time.”
“Damn.” Castilla looked straight across his big pine desk at Brose. “All right, Admiral,” he asked, “what’s your best estimate for when the balloon might go up ?assuming that our worst fears are right?”
“All I have is a guess, Mr. President,” the other man warned him.
“In the absence of facts, I’ll settle for anything I can get,” Castilla said drily.
Brose nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand that.” His eyebrows knitted together as he concentrated. After a moment, he looked up somberly. “In my view, Mr.
President, the Russians could be ready to strike any time within the next twenty-four to ninety-six hours.”
Castilla felt cold. Time was evidently running out faster than he had imagined.
One of the secure phones on his desk beeped. He snatched it up. “Yes?”
It was Fred Klein. “Colonel Smith and Ms. Devin are alive?and they’re in contact,” the head of Covert-One reported, quietly exultant. “What’s more, I believe they have uncovered a major piece of the puzzle.”
“But do they have the hard evidence we need?” the president asked carefully, aware of Admiral Brose sitting within earshot.
“Not yet, Sam,” Klein admitted. “But Jon and Ms. Devin are confident thev know where to go to acquire that evidence. First, though, we’ve got to get them safely out of Russia.”
Castilla raised an eyebrow. The last he had heard, Klein’s agents were on the Kremlin’s Most-Wanted list. Security officers at every Russian airport, I train station, harbor, and border crossing were already on the highest possible alert. “Good grief. That’s not going to be easy, is it?”
“No, sir,” Klein told him firmly. “It won’t.”
Snow was falling across the empty fields and wooded hills, swirling in drifts as gusts of wind blew harder from the east. There was no sight of the noon sun beneath the heavy mass of clouds covering the sky. Safe from any possible observation by American photo-reconnaissance satellites, long lines of T-90 and T-72 tanks, BMP-3 fighting vehicles, and heavy self-propelled guns crowded the narrow roads and logging tracks that wove south through the forests toward the frontier.
Hundreds of vehicles sat motionless, already thickly blanketed by the fast-falling snow. Thousands of men stood at attention in formation beside them, I waiting for the signal to move.
Suddenly a white flare soared up from the south and burst beneath the overcast sky. Whistles blew shrilly up and down the waiting columns of men.
Instantly, the rigid formations dissolved, with tank crews, infantry squads, and gun crews all swarming onto their vehicles.
Captain Andrei Yudenich pulled himself up onto the low, rounded turret of his T-90 tank and then dropped lightly into the open commander’s cupola.
With an ease born of constant practice, he donned his headset and plugged it into the tank’s radio gear. Glancing down, he checked the settings, making sure his microphone was set on intercom. Like the other units assembled here, the 4th Guards Tank Division was still under strict orders to maintain radio silence.
For Yudenich and his men, the last twenty-four hours had passed in a blur, consumed by the frantic work?fueling up, stowing ammunition and food, and running last-minute maintenance on ever)- major system ? necessary to prepare their tanks and other vehicles for possible combat. No one yet knew Rnite why they were really here, but rumors of imminent war had swept through the huge camouflaged cantonments with increasing frequency and conviction. And the claims by some senior officers that this was all just an elaborate readiness exercise sounded increasingly hollow.
The captain looked up, seeing another flare arc through the skv. This one was red. He keved his mike. “Stand by. Driver, engine start!”
Immediately, the T-90’s powerful diesel engine roared to life, echoed by all the others in the column. Clouds of thick black smoke drifted away across the white fields and dark woods.
And a third flare soared high, this one green.
Yudenich watched closely, waiting for the tanks ahead of his to start moving before ordering his own driver to advance. One by one, starting from the front, the massive armored vehicles clanked into motion, treads squealing and clattering as they headed south, rumbling toward new assembly areas that lay within closer striking range of the Ukrainian border.
The clock was running on a countdown toward war.
Chapter Forty-Four
Ciampino Airport lay on the outskirts of Rome, only fifteen kilometers from the center of the city. Plowed fields, parkland, suburban homes, low-rise apartment buildings, and light-industrial areas surrounded the small, single-runway airport. Eclipsed by its larger rival, Fiumicino, Ciampino was now used primarily by low-cost international charter flights and smaller private, government, and corporate aircraft.
Shortly after three in the afternoon, local time, a twin-engine corporate jet broke through the thin layer of overcast, flew parallel to the Via Appia Nuova in a gradual descent toward the airport, and then dropped lower. It touched down only meters after clearing the boundary marker, braked hard, and slowly taxied past the small terminal used by arriving and departing charter flights.
At the end of the runway, the jet swung left and pulled up on the section of concrete apron ordinarily used by cargo aircraft. Two Mercedes sedans were Parked there, waiting.
Eight men, all dressed in winter clothing, emerged from the aircraft. Six of them formed a tight ring around the seventh, an older, white-haired man who Was already striding purposefully toward the parked cars. The eighth man, much taller and with pale blond hair, moved forward to intercept the lone Italian customs official coming to greet them.
“Your papers, Signor?” the customs officer asked politely.
The bloncl-haired man reached inside his coat and took out his passport and other documents.
Smiling politely, the Italian scanned through them quickly. He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I see that you are assigned to the ECPR. We see mam of its staff here at Ciampino. Tell me, what is your work for the Center?”
Erich Brandt smiled mirthlessly. “Auditing and quality control.”
“And what of those other gentlemen?” the customs officer asked, nodding toward Konstantin Malkovic and his bodyguards as they climbed into the waiting sedans. “Do they also work for the Center?”
Brandt nodded. “They do.” He reached inside his heavy coat again, this time for a white letter-sized envelope. “Here are their required papers. I think you will find that everything is in order.”
The Italian pulled open the envelope just far enough to see the thick sheaf of high-denomination euro notes it contained. He smiled greedily. “Quite correct, as always.” Then he stuffed the envelope away inside his own coat.
“Once again, it is a pleasure doing business with you, Signor Brandt. I look forward to your next visit.”
Within minutes, Brandt, Malkovic, and their six heavily armed bodyguards were speeding away along the Via Appia Nuova, beginning the next leg of their journey to Orvieto.
